


Of Rockstars and Repression

by aitomation



Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: (a little bit in the sexual way), Autistic Hermann Gottlieb, Canon Disabled Character, Getting Together, Groupie Hermann, Groupies, Hermann's Pillows, Humming, Implied Sexual Content, Kaiju (Pacific Rim), Leather, M/M, Makeup, Making Out, Newt's Band, Piercings, Teasing, The Black Velvet Rabbits - Freeform, Trans Hermann Gottlieb, Trans Male Character, Trans Newton Geiszler, Trunks of Band Memorabilia, a single mention of hermann's mother's death, at the end there, but not in the sexual way, they dissect it a little bit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-10
Updated: 2019-06-10
Packaged: 2020-04-23 20:32:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19158460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aitomation/pseuds/aitomation
Summary: When Hermann was younger, he saw a band perform in Berlin. When he got a bit older, he wrote letters to a fascinating man in Boston. When he got just a little bit older than that, he discovered the men were one and the same-and he decided he could never have either of them. He didn't count on Newton having a say in the matter.





	Of Rockstars and Repression

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by a tweet by the lovely erica @skeleton_twins  
> just a cute fic for hermann's birthday :DDDD

Hermann didn’t often hum; he wasn’t particularly fond of singing. When he was very young, and pain or bad dreams kept him from sleep, his mother would hold him in her arms and murmur the lyrics to old nursery rhymes. As he grew older, he collected records and tapes-and later CDs and digital files-and when he was frustrated or hurt or overwhelmed he would play them quietly, listening intently.

When he was 20, and his mother passed away, he went to a nearby club to get properly soused and found a new favorite band. The lead singer was short and loud; the performers were all dressed in leather with dark makeup smudged across their faces. Their music was fast, and aggressive, and not at all like the music Hermann usually listened to. He stayed through the entire show, and took a flyer on his way out the door.

The band had their own website, as it turned out. The lead singer was called “Newt.” The Black Velvet Rabbits had an EP, and were scheduled to perform 13 more shows in Berlin before the end of the year. Hermann conveniently had business in the city the same week as one of the shows, and snuck out to the bar just before they were set to begin.

The show was much the same as the last; though Hermann was far less incapacitated this time around. The lead singer- _Newt_ -hopped around the little stage and screeched his high notes and generally looked like he was having a great deal of fun. At one point he turned his head so sharply that his thick glasses flew off his face and landed somewhere in the crowd. Hermann had had to stifle an uncharacteristic giggle behind one hand. This time they were selling T-shirts; Hermann bought two.

He hadn’t meant to get so invested in the little group; but every time it was feasible, Hermann went to their shows. He amassed quite a collection of memorabilia over the years-buttons and shirts and posters and CDs. He even followed them on social media. He didn’t realize that he was more taken with Newt than with the music.

Hermann found himself particularly bold before a show in Bamberg-July 2013. He edged his way to the stage, landing in the front row by the time the band came out. They played their songs, so familiar to Hermann now, with the same passion and energy. At one point, Newt leaned out over the crowd on a sustained note, and Hermann couldn’t tell if his eyes were actually that shade of green or if it was a trick of the lights. His heart was left pounding-not because of the crowd or the thrumming bass this time. Newt was signing autographs at the door. Hermann tried not to seem too flustered at his green, green eyes, or the freckles on his cheeks, or his strong hand squeezing Hermann’s arm before he walked away; though he thought of nothing else until August 10th, when the world changed forever.

Doctor Newton Geiszler had seemed very familiar when Hermann looked him up. There was something about his hair, or his build, or his gestures. It didn’t seem important at the time; they were too focused on giant monsters and the weapons to fight them. But it was always there, that lingering sense of recognition.

Newton was charming. He was painfully informal (“Please call me Newt;” but Hermann couldn’t possibly, because _Newt_ was someone else entirely) and horribly immature and phenomenally intelligent. He had a quick wit and a sharp tongue and he sent Hermann pressed flowers and tiny seashells. Hermann would never have admitted to his growing affection for Newton-he’d feel awfully silly, professing love for a funny little man he only knew through letters. But the feelings remained, unexpressed, only growing with time. He and Newton worked independently, found solace in each other at the beginning of the end of the world, and Hermann was perfectly willing to harbor his crush from a safe distance once again.

Newton didn’t recognize him, and for that he was eternally grateful. Hermann would’ve said he was horrified, but a more appropriate word would’ve been embarrassed, when one day Newton sent him a picture of a photograph-a photograph of _Newt_ , performing on a small stage, captioned with “did i ever tell u i was in a band??” Hermann felt like an idiot; he was reminded of being tricked by his older classmates as a child, into believing whatever they told him as fact. Newt and Newton were one and the same, and Hermann felt foolish for not realizing it sooner. He laid out Newton’s latest letter next to his autographed album and held his head in his hands. He had a type, and apparently it was _Newton Geiszler_.

Hermann couldn’t even be cross with Newton. Newton hadn’t deceived him-he very obviously didn’t know that Hermann had already met him. Hermann could only curse himself for childish foolishness and fancy. How could he face Newton in Stockholm, knowing what he did about Newt-and about himself?

 

Hermann didn’t often hum; today, when Newt wheeled a bunch of spare parts into the lab, he was humming. He was very quiet-barely louder than the _click_ of his chalk against the blackboard-so Newt was surprised at how quickly he recognized the tune; though it’s hard to forget the melody of a song you wrote.

“What is that you’re humming Herms?” Newt asked.

“Ah,” Hermann made a startled noise. “I hadn’t realized you were back. My apologies if I disturbed you Newton.” Newt scoffed.

“You didn’t answer my question,” he insisted, rifling through the container of parts. He didn’t notice Hermann going tense. “Besides, you’re barely loud enough to hear, let alone to bother anyone, especially not me.”

“Yes, I am surprised you could hear me at all, given the sort of damage your usual racket has probably caused your hearing,” Hermann sniffed. Newt blanched.

“Damn Hermann, I was just trying to make some conversation,” Newt snapped. He tossed a handful of pipes onto his workbench, much harder than was strictly necessary. He wasn’t exactly happy when the sound made Hermann flinch, but it did make him feel a bit vindicated. “You’ll probably be furious to know that I _wrote_ that song you have stuck in your head.” Rather than snap something about Newt not having the talent, or grumbling about Newt ruining good music, Hermann made a noncommittal noise and went back to working, shoulders tense. Newt watched him carefully. That hadn’t been the kind of reaction he was expecting at all. Usually when Hermann picked fights, he didn’t back down until he won (or until they both exhausted themselves and had to call it a day). Now, he was balancing on his ladder, visibly uncomfortable, not so subtly glancing at Newt every so often out of the corner of his eye. His ears were red. Newt grinned.  

 

“ _What_ are you wearing?” Hermann asked as soon as he entered the lab the next day. It wasn’t often that Newton was up working before him, so Hermann hazarded a glance to Newton’s side of the lab; just to make sure he wasn’t doing anything overtly dangerous too close to the line of course.

Newton was hard at work on a dissection-nylon gloves pulled taut, headlamp firmly in place-but instead of his usual work buttonup he was wearing a _very familiar_ , skin-tight leather vest. All of his garish tattoos were on display; even the ones on his chest were visible with the way the vest was fastened.

“You like?” Newt said in a cheery voice. “I can’t fit in my leather pants anymore-” Hermann pointedly ignored the way _that_ statement made him feel, “but this still fits fine.”

“You’re a bastard,” Hermann ground out between suddenly clenched teeth. Newton was a genius, though it was easy to forget; he had to have figured it out. He had proved himself particularly good at reading Hermann, at least. Hermann knew what Newt was trying to do and he wouldn’t let him win.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Newt said, grinning. “Can’t a guy relive his glory days a little?” Hermann sniffed.

“It seems highly unprofessional to do so in this particular environment Newton.” Newt rolled his eyes.

“Who _cares_ Hermann? It’s just the two of us down here.” Hermann was sure that Newton was going to be the death of him. “What, are you gonna report me again?” Hermann glowered as best he could, forcing the color from his cheeks as Newt bent over his work again. He wouldn’t rise to the bait and give Newton the satisfaction of embarrassing him. He stalked over to his chalkboards and started his work, pointedly ignoring Newt for the rest of the day.

Newt let Hermann have his silence. He was already planning his next outfit, hunched over the tissue sample from Manila. Hermann was so easy to rile up; this was just too fun to leave alone. Who knew straight laced Hermann Gottlieb was into rockstars? He supposed it made sense; growing up the way Hermann did, being able to let loose would be pretty enticing. Maybe Hermann had even imagined some leather-covered punk whisking him away in the night to live a life of debauchery that would make his father furious. Newt flushed at the mental image of himself on a motorcycle, with Hermann’s arms wrapped around his waist, and shook his head. This was about Hermann being embarrassed because he liked Newt’s band-nothing else.

 

Newt actually needed Hermann for something relatively important when he went to knock on his door after he had retired for the night. It was impossible for him to remember what it was when he heard his own music again, this time from the tinny speakers of Hermann’s laptop, seeping through the door. He knocked anyway, mimicking the beat of the song. The music stopped very suddenly and Hermann wrenched his door open a second later.

“May I help you?” he asked, carefully neutral.

“Yeah actually. Can I come in?” Hermann hesitated for a moment before he stepped to the side, letting Newt walk past him and into his room.

This wasn’t Newt’s first time seeing the inside of Hermann’s room-it wasn’t even the second or third-but it was the first time that he didn’t have a sleep-drunk/injured/sick Hermann hanging off him and monopolizing his attention. He glanced around slowly, taking in the meticulous way things were organized, the lack of personal touches, the number of pillows and how they were strewn all over the room. Hermann closed the door and shifted nervously.

“What did you need, Newton?” he asked. His laptop was the only thing out of place; the lid was closed but the blinking light told Newt it was on, and it’s awkward position on the desk told Newt that it was shut in a hurry.

“You know it’s okay for you to like my band right?” Newt blurted. He shoved his hands in his pockets for something to do. Hermann blinked, very quickly turning red.

“Who said it wasn’t?” he responded coolly. “I simply wished to keep it a secret so that you wouldn’t do what you’re doing right now.”

“And what am I doing?”

“Making fun of me.” Newt blinked.

“Dude. I’m not making fun of you.” Hermann fidgeted under his gaze. He was looking at a spot in the corner, biting the inside of his cheek. “Hermann,” Newt said patiently. He waited for Hermann to look at him before he continued. “If anything I’m flattered.”

“Flattered?” Hermann repeated, clearly disbelieving. Newt scoffed, smiling slightly.

“You’re like, my best friend Hermann. I think you’re cool and you like my music and that’s pretty awesome. Even if it is really old now.” Newt wrinkled his nose. Now that he was thinking about it, there were some pretty bad songs on those albums.

“I…” Hermann’s voice pulled him out of his thoughts, “hadn’t realized you thought so highly of me.” Newt shrugged.

“Of course. I always have.” Hermann flushed again.

“It is not that I like your music that I am ashamed of,” Hermann said quietly. Newt blinked again. Hermann was _ashamed_? “I was quite a fan of yours. Your band’s,” he corrected quickly. Newt bit his lip.

“Is that a bad thing?” he asked. Hermann was looking at his closet now, squeezing the head of his cane intermittently.

“It was, when I found out that you were you.” Hermann made a face. He wasn’t used to describing his feelings-he wasn’t a fan of analyzing the rules he had set for himself, and this was a conversation he had never wanted to have. Newt watched as he crossed to the closet and started rummaging around. It was as organized as the rest of his things, but there were a lot of boxes shoved underneath the hanging shirts. He made a little noise when he pulled out a black trunk; the clunky Harry Potter kind, with clasps and locks and handles on the side. Newt bit his lip to keep from making any comments about it. This moment felt important.

Hermann dragged the truck to the end of his bed and hauled it into his desk chair with some effort. Newt crossed to his side and hovered, trying not to be overly distracting, but also dying from the anticipation. Hermann fumbled with the clasps, his hands shaking ever so slightly. Newt made a curious noise when Hermann finally flicked them open and then hesitated with the lid.

“You don’t have to show me,” Newt said gently. Hermann pursed his lips; pushed the lid open. “Oh my God,” Newt breathed. The whole trunk was full of Black Velvet Rabbits shit. He didn’t even know they had produced that much merch. Hermann fidgeted some more, not looking at Newt’s face.

“I was a fan,” Hermann repeated.

“You have my band’s CDs? Well I mean, of course you do, you know the songs,” Newt said, pulling their first EP out of the trunk. Hermann flushed darkly, swiping the case from Newt’s hands.

“I started listening before we were writing,” he said quickly.

“Aw,” Newt cooed, pulling out an obscure magazine with his own face on the cover; the headline declaring it an issue about the BAD BOYS OF UNDERGROUND ROCK. “You got a thing for bad boys Hermy?”

“You are not a bad boy Newton,” Hermann said dismissively.

“Hard rock?” Newt tried.

“Not particularly.”

“So you just have a thing for me then,” Newt said simply.

“What!” Hermann snapped, the blush on his cheeks darkening. Newt was looking in the trunk again, smiling-smug and amused in equal measures. He held up a poster; well taken care of but still showing signs of use at the corners, where it had obviously been hung multiple times. The color drained from Hermann’s face.

It was a poster of Newt, a candid shot of him singing, with their band’s logo pasted in the corner. He was dressed head to foot in leather; hair long enough that it was swept back, curling around his ears; eyes ringed in far too much dark liner. Hermann had it plastered to his ceiling for years-through several flats-and he remembered with mortification the number of times he had stared up at it wistfully, sighing; reminding himself very much of the teenage girls his sister would spend time with when he was young, when they talked about boy bands.

He glared at Newt and snatched the poster from his hands. Even in his embarrassment he handled it carefully, gently setting it back in the trunk.

“I enjoyed the music,” he hissed.

“It’s good music,” Newt agreed. He was still smiling in that infuriating way-too much teeth, eyes crinkling with mirth. Hermann wanted to punch him (and pointedly ignored the part of himself that wanted to kiss it better afterwards). “Oh man, you got this one autographed? How did I not remember you?”

“I was quite relieved that you didn’t.” Hermann crossed his arms, leaning against the wall.

“But you remembered me.” Newt was leafing through the many flyers Hermann had collected over the years.

“Not at first. You look much different in a lab coat.” Newt snorted.

“I’ll say.” He pulled out a t-shirt next; soft and well-worn, threadbare at the hem where Hermann used to worry it between his fingers. “This is so cool,” Newt murmured. He looked up at Hermann. “You kept all this? Even after you found out I wasn’t always an awesome rockstar?” Hermann’s lips twitched. He turned his head, pointedly looking away from Newt’s wide eyes.

“It wasn’t the rockstar that intrigued me.”

“I _intrigued_ you,” Newt repeated, smile smug again. Hermann flushed yet again, his ears turning pink.

“It is no secret that I admire your passion Newton. It is why I defend you when the need arises.” Hermann worried his bottom lip between his teeth. “I suppose you are my ‘best friend’ as well.” The phrase sounded foreign on Hermann’s tongue. He shifted uncomfortably. Newt busied himself putting everything back in its proper place in the trunk.

“Best friend does sound better than biggest fan,” he said. Herman scoffed and the atmosphere shifted; became less heavy with whatever it had been heavy with. Newt laughed and flipped the lid of the trunk closed. He didn’t bother with the clasps. “Thanks for showing me this.”

“Lord knows your ego doesn’t need the boost.” Newt grinned, all teeth again, and let himself out. He was halfway back to his room before he remembered why he came to see Hermann in the first place.

 

The next day, Newt stumbled into the lab nearly two hours after Hermann. He went straight to the coffee machine in the little communal corner they had made, and shuffled around making a cup of coffee with the pot Hermann had brewed when he arrived. Hermann didn’t turn to look at him until the microwave beeped and he could hear Newt wandering to his desk. Hermann dropped his chalk; swore quietly.

Newt had swept his hair back, letting it curl around his ears. He had put in his piercings; heavily lined his eyes in kohl. Newt looked up when he heard the snap of Hermann’s chalk breaking on the floor. Hermann swallowed.

“Good morning Newton,” he said, his voice much more quiet and strangled than he would’ve liked. Newt grinned.

“Mornin,” he said. He busied himself at his desk, apparently catching up on his many piles of paperwork. Hermann watched him, his mouth dry. He couldn’t look away. Newton may be softer in the middle, more colorful in the chest and arms, but it was remarkable how much he still looked like the young man Hermann had watched on those many stages. The only real significant difference was the worry lines in his forehead and between his brows. Hermann wanted to smooth them with his thumbs, and smear his fingers with the black liner around Newt’s eyes. He quickly turned to his chalkboards, blushing furiously.

Newt watched the blush crawl down Hermann’s neck; saw his shoulders climb to his red ears. He grinned. Of course he was smug-finally reducing Hermann to speechlessness was a great accomplishment in his book-but more than that he was endeared. A little bit of eyeliner and a couple pieces of metal and Hermann was 20 years old again, fumbling and awkward and utterly adorable.

“Hey Hermann?” Newt called a little later. He was more awake now, elbow deep in a chunk of Kaiju stomach (boringly neutralized before it got to him). “Can you come help me real quick?” Hermann turned to look at him and made a strangled sound.

“With what?” he asked trepidatiously.

“Nothing too gross,” Newt replied, grinning toothily. Hermann huffed, shuffled around on the rung of his ladder for a moment, and climbed down carefully. He grabbed his cane and grumbled the whole way over to Newt’s dissection table. The closer he got, the easier Newt could see the flush on his cheeks.

Hermann deposited himself firmly in front of Newt, on the opposite side of the table.

“What do you need?” Newt laughed.

“I need you over here, for starters.” Hermann huffed. He shuffled around again, distinctly more nervous. Newt smiled, in what he hoped was an encouraging way. Hermann edged his way around the table, choosing to look warily at the Kaiju part on the table instead of at Newt. “Grab that little flashlight over there,” Newt gestured with his head, “and shine it where my hands are.” Hermann complied, flexing his fingers around the flashlight before he clicked it on. He moved it so the light was shining on Newt’s hands, and it only shook a little bit. “Awesome, thank you.” Newt smiled; bumped his shoulder against Hermann’s companionably.

“Of course,” Hermann said without thinking. He flushed a shade darker.

As Newt worked, Hermann watched his face. He was wholly concentrated on the tiniest details of what he was doing. He was just barely squinting, his brow slightly furrowed. His hands were steady and precise.

“Hermann, dude,” Newt said. “You gotta keep the light on my hands.”

“M-my apologies Newton.” Hermann cursed himself for stuttering. He turned his head away, holding his hand steady. Newt’s warm body beside him was just as distracting as his face. It felt like an eternity before Newton was finished whatever he was doing.

“Alright! Thanks Hermann, you really helped me out.” Newt clapped Hermann on the shoulder and let his hand linger, squeezing lightly. Hermann’s words caught in his throat and an embarrassing sound sneaked out instead. He blushed all the way down his neck again, and moved to walk away, but Newt pulled him closer. “You’re distracted today,” he whispered. Hermann tensed.

“You’re very distracting,” Hermann responded, just as quiet.

“Am I?” Newt asked, pulling off his gloves. He threw them in the general direction of the biohazard bin, and then he was crowding Hermann against an empty workbench. Hermann squeaked, stumbling back. He gripped the edge of the work bench with both hands, his cane clattering to the floor.

“Newton,” he croaked. Newt sucked his lip ring into his mouth. Hermann’s eyes tracked the movement.

“Yeah?” Newt breathed. His breath ghosted Hermann’s mouth. Hermann licked his lips, and then Newt was surging forward, kissing him breathless. He pressed forward insistently, hands sneaking up Hermann’s sides to press into his lower back. Hermann whimpered into Newt’s mouth. Newt pulled back, keeping Hermann’s lower lip between his teeth and tugging lightly. They breathed heavily for a moment, looking into each other’s eyes, before Newt spoke.

“Your pupils are blown to shit.” Hermann scoffed, face warm.

“I can’t imagine why.”

“You really get off on this huh? On the makeup and the leather and the piercings?” Hermann’s mouth wrinkled.

“I wouldn’t put it so crudely.”

“But it is a fantasy of yours. Sleeping with a rockstar.” Newt smirked. Hermann surged forward this time, wrapping his arms around Newt’s shoulders and leaning back, tugging Newt on top of him on the workbench. Newt grunted into the kiss, catching himself on his hands. When he pulled back he hovered barely an inch above Hermann, panting.

“No,” Hermann whispered. “Not just any rockstar.” Newt laughed nervously.

“Wow,” he squeaked.  

 

Laying side by side in Hermann’s bed that night, Newt grilled Hermann with questions about his past as a hopeless groupie.

“Did you seriously not know? You didn’t make the connection between Newt and Newton?”

“Newt isn’t an entirely uncommon name,” Hermann protested, “not in our circles Newton.”

“I will concede that,” Newt started, “but wow, did I really look that different?”

“I will admit you seemed… familiar,” Hermann said, flushing. He was tracing the patterns of Newt’s tattoos, to avoid looking him in the eye.

“What tipped you off?” Hermann flushed darker, and Newt really loved the way he looked when he got all flustered.

“You sent me a photograph of yourself performing.” Newt laughed, the sound rumbling through Hermann’s body pressed against Newt’s chest.

“Wow,” he said, “and you call yourself a genius.” Hermann swatted one of Newt’s pecs.

“People are not mathematics. They don’t make any sense.”

“I hear that. I study bodies, but the mind is crazy. Personalities are the worst, we should all just be lichen. Sand dollars maybe.” Hermann laughed. He leaned his cheek against Newt’s chest. Newt was smoothing a hand up and down his spine, the warmth sending shivers through him. He hadn’t imagined this part, when he was 20 and sighing wistfully up at the performer hopping around on stage. It was much better than he expected.

  
  



End file.
